


The Warden Chronicles

by TheClicheInLife



Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheClicheInLife/pseuds/TheClicheInLife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the almighty Warden Commander must have one or two stories of shenanigans to tell around the campfire. These are some of those. Dragon Age: Origins drabble series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Satinalia

**Author's Note:**

> Zevran explains the differences between Ferelden’s and Antiva’s Satinalia celebration to a Dalish Warden.

"You make masks?" Calliope's nose scrunches at the thought; it was already difficult to tell shemlen apart, a mask would only make things more difficult, "How do you manage to recognize people?"  
The former Crow barks out a laugh, "You don't, my dear Warden, that is indeed part of the fun - you don't know who you've taken home until you get them into bed with you." A reminiscent smile followed a sigh, Satinalia was Zevran's favorite holiday by far, "We also crown a fool as well as a week of drunken frivolity throughout Antiva City."  
"Creators...." Stealing a glance of the blonde elf who seemed to be absorbed in a most pleasant memory she continues, "What is it that you do for a week? I'd probably end up miserable before the end of the first day." The idea of being drunk for a week left an unpleasant taste in the blonde's mouth, especially the thought of recovering from it.  
"That is what you have a fantastic guide for," Zevran shoots the Dalish Warden a disarming smile, "We'd dance under the stars until dawn and then we'd make our way to a small stall by the sea and have a breakfast of fresh berries and fruit... Then, I'd take you back to an apartment and would ravish-"  
Alistair's arm had managed to wrap itself around Calliope's shoulder, tugging her away from a disappointed Zevran, "Callie, would you help me find some berries for dinner? I always manage to pick the ones that'll end poorly for us."  
"I - but, Zevran was talking to me about Satinalia in Antiva City." The blonde pouts up at the warrior, "I wanted a new story - we haven't visited any taverns in weeks and I'm sure that even Camalos tires of the tale of Fen'Harel at this point."  
"Yes, Alistair," Zevran had somehow managed to slink next to her without Calliope noticing, she wasn't sure whether to accredit the assassin or scold herself for not paying better attention, "Take Morrigan with you, I'm sure she's just as adept as the Warden and we need someone to sense the darkspawn in camp."  
"So I'm a glorified darkspawn sensor now?" Calliope huffed and crosses her arms over her chest, giving both of the men her best attempt at a hurt gaze.  
Alistair's laugh boomed through the forest, "I-no, of course not, what I meant was" The assassin scrambled for a word eyes widening as Calliope dissolved into a fit of giggles, making his eyes widen and eventually growled at the tiny blonde elf in front of him, "You! I actually thought you were mad at me."  
"So did I." The humor left Alistiar's voice, a scowl taking its place, "You know what, I'm just gonna go - and if I kill us, it’s on the two of you." Stomping off the two elves shared an amused look.  
Blush lightly tinting her cheeks she presses her lips to his in a quick kiss. Lips then brushing across his cheek she whispers into his ear, face reddening with each word, "What was that about ravishing, again?"  
Before he could respond, however the blonde elf had scampered off to help Leliana set up her tent, "Braska."  
Next year. He was sure of it.


	2. Rainstorms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail Amell escapes from the Circle, at least for a little while. [Slight Cullen/Female Amell]

She could have been a statue. To anyone looking out from the docks of Lake Calenhad, that's exactly what she was. Her robes and hair clung to her tiny frame as the rain continued to pour.  
Abigail Amell should have been in bed hours ago - the sound of the rain, however, stirred something inside the mage. She was tired of the stone walls. The cold. The persecutive glares.   
Standing out in the rain, being soaked to the bone, wind whipping through her, this was the first time in her life that she felt truly free.  
The templars didn't matter. The fact she was a mage didn't matter. In this moment, she was nothing, had to be nothing. It was as if the rain itself cleansed the brunette of the things she had done to survive the Circle.  
Peace was shattered by a single, uncertain voice, "You shouldn't be out here, you know."  
"Oh?" A smile formed on her lips, but Abigail didn't turn to face one of the new templars who recently joined to bolster the ranks at the Circle.  
"Lights out was called almost an hour ago, mage." His voice still wavered, and for the first time in an extremely long time, she felt something tug inside her.  
"Are you certain?" Abigail turned on her heels, deep brown meeting forest green, his hands were at his sides, not mounting for a weapon, nor could she sense the tingle of the the templar's lyrium supply.  
"I -uhm, of course, I-I'm sure." His voice quaked, it was anything but certain, and yet, he looked at her, not as a mage, needing to be controlled, but as a human being.  
"You certainly don't sound it, Templar." In three quick strides she approached him, ah, now he draws for the weapon, "No one will respect you, my dearest templar, with such little conviction in your voice."  
On tip toes her lips neared his, "I... Should go." Without another word he had slipped back through the door that led off the rooftop.  
A sad smile played across her lips, waiting until he slipped back into the tower once more she mumbles, "More conviction there, at least."   
It was strange, she thought, to be treated as an actual human being instead of a weapon. It was something to yearn for now.


	3. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Landsmeet the discussion of the future between Áine Tabris and Alistiar gets heated. [Sort of Alistair/Female!Warden!Tabris?]

The sharp sound of her palm connecting with his cheek echoed against the stone walls of the Arl of Redcliffe's Denerim Estate.

Her hand stung. His cheek swelled. There was silence once more.

Of course it would be this way. It always ended this way. Alistair opened his mouth to speak, "Don't." Her voice was as sharp as the dagger she held on her back. "There isn't anything you can say to make this right." How could she have expected any different – he was no different than Vaughn. She felt betrayed. Violated.

Áine would be damned if she'd cry, this bastard may have taken everything else from her, but he wouldn't take her pride, "Áine, I'm so sorry." His face was honest, but she wouldn't let it quell the rage she held in her.

Something between a shriek and an attempt at a laugh escaped her lips, "Sorry fixes nothing." She hisses, "You make me a fool, denounce me in front of the people we've traveled with for a better part of a year, and the only thing you can think to say is "I'm so sorry." Take your kingdom. Take a pretty human wife. But if you think that I will stay here for one moment longer - you obviously do not know me." Spitting on the floor in front of him she grabs her pack and turns on her heel.

He wouldn't see her cry.

She'd wait until she got home.

In the comfort of the bed she left almost a year ago.

And then she'd cry.

Praying she'd wake up to her wedding day once more.


	4. Break Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving in Amaranthine leaves Brigit with even more scars than she ever thought possible - some of them cut even deeper than those on her flesh. [Mentions of Nathaniel Howe/Female!Cousland!Warden]

Was it a punishment?

These cold eyes.

Ones that years ago, held so much life, so much emotion.

He watched her now with a hollow glare.

How could she ever ask him to forgive her for what she had done all those months ago?

They had been friends, lovers, and now, he looks at her with even more venom than his father had managed in the moments before his death.

It would never be enough.

She knew what it was like to lose a father.

To ask for anything.

Especially acceptance.

Or forgiveness.

She couldn’t.

"I'm sorry, Nathaniel."

"I know."

She let him go.

And felt more alone than she had ever before.


	5. Playing with Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthfael attempts to talk Morrigan out of lighting Alistair on fire. [Morrigan/Male!Surana]

“Morrigan, you can’t.” The blonde frowned.

Morrigan sniffed, “T’would be easy, the buffoon probably would not notice until it was too late.”

“Oh, and leave the two of us to defeat the Blight?” Arthfael laughed, “I’ll take my chances with the templar trainee– Perhaps the Darkspawn can knock some sense into him.”

“A fire would be decidedly quicker.” The elf shoot a look towards the witch of the wilds, almost sending her an emphatic ‘no’ with looks alone. “Oh, you must tire of his constant nagging and decided dejectedness at the loss of his mentor.”

The prickle of magic made the blonde elf suppress a chuckle, “Morrigan, if you light him on fire who is going to heal him?” He had been taught better than this, and yet, sitting around the tiny campfire with Morrigan, he felt as if he were twelve years old and practicing magic in the dorm rooms once more.

“’Tis not something I should concern myself with – he is the one who so foolishly leaves his heart on his sleeve, as it were.” Morrigan flicked her wrist and the flames underneath the second campfire grew slightly, Alistair oblivious all the while.

“I’m quite sure that I could find a different way to entertain you that doesn’t involve physical scarring,” A smile plays on Arthfael’s lips, “unless you’re into that of course, then it can indeed be arranged.”

“I can hear the two of you, you know,” Alistair’s dry sarcasm carried across the camp, Morrigan and the elven mage shared a look.

“Perhaps another night, tonight I have plans to singe the annoying one’s hair.” Nodding he presses a kiss to Morrigan’s cheek, grinning like a fool as he watches her face tint red with blush while walking back to his tent beside Alistair’s.


	6. Maleficar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the tower of Ishal Abigail is faced with a choice - death or a forbidden school of magic.

Mana listlessly crackled under her fingertips, Maker, Abigail was exhausted, she wasn’t sure she could… “You need to light the beacon.” His voice was even more grating than it had been previously, and if she didn’t need him alive she was certain that she would let no one else kill the ex-templar.

“Shut up. I know, templar.”Hissing back at the man beside her she felt her fingertips burn as the flames leaped from the Fade, into the beacons signal. She wasn’t sure that she had enough in her to keep this up. “There, care to criticize some more?”

“Perhaps later,” The sarcasm that dripped through his voice made Abigail’s eyes roll. The door slammed in on its hinges and the junior Wardens both turn to face the impending darkspawn attack, “Oh, Maker.”

“Don’t wet yourself, Alistair.” She attempted to sound more confident than she was, in truth, she knew that her meager amount of lyrium potions couldn’t get them back down through the tower. Pulling her staff off of her back she sent a cone of ice towards the door. Reaching into her pack Abigail grunts at a pain blossoming in her left shoulder, her body being jolted to the floor she looks up dizzily, “…What?” Turning to look, Abigail can feel her stomach turn, there is an arrow sticking out of her shoulder.

“No.” The word was barely a whisper on her lips. She wouldn’t die here. Hand tightly clasping around the vial of lyrium she pressed it to her lips, the taste of iron bitter on her tongue. Closing her eyes she attempted to access the Fade – it had been so much easier in the Harrowing chamber, there weren’t darkspawn there, no fear of death beyond her own weakness.

“Well, this isn’t something that I see every day.” The world had transformed – blurred at the edges, it truly was like a dream, and left a familiar sense of dread that accessing the Fade did to all mages, “Is there something you needed, little mage?” The desire demon purred, for that was the only word that Abigail could think of.

“Blood magic.” Her voice was hushed, it was tinged with fear, as if the templar order itself would bear down on her for her words alone. “Teach me blood magic.”

“Oh, and what do I get in exchange?” the demon watched Abigail, as if it were a wounded animal, ready to be plucked from this world as little more than carrion.

“Nothing.” Her voice was harsh, “I have no want to become an abomination – you know as well as I that blood magic itself creates tears within the Fade, use that if you can. For that is all I will offer, and I have a feeling it is a better offer than you have had recently, demon.”

Dramatically sighing the demon caressed its curves, “Unfortunately true, and the Veil is already weakened where you are currently.”

“Then do it.” Teeth gritted she grunted, even in the Fade, the pain of her shoulder didn’t abate.

“As you desire.” The irony of the words were not lost on Abigail, closing her eyes images filled her mind, incantations in ancient and modern Tevene, everything she needed, “It is done.”

“Good.” Hand gripping the arrow tightly she pulled it from her shoulder and the Fade disappeared, cold floor of the tower pressing into her cheek. Grunting she rose on shaking legs and attempted to draw on what she had just learned, the blood surged forward – ripping and tearing through the darkspawn that were now between her and the exit. She didn’t dare look at the templar – to see whatever Chantry borne fear was left there.

Her head spun, she had used too much blood, profanities slipping from her lips Abigail felt herself collapse back onto the floor once more – perhaps the damned desire demon would get what it wanted after all.


	7. Sins of Our Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana comes to wonder about Danel's tattoos, and just how - or why he received them. [slight Leliana/Male!Brosca]

The road to Denerim had been quiet, pleasantly so, after the debacle that was the Arl of Redcliffe’s family matters, the peace of the road was welcome, even if Danel was almost certain that he was still to fall into the sky.

“Where do they come from?” Everyone, even the assassin paused to look at the Orleasian bard. Her eyes widen in a silent apology, and then she turns to face the duster, “Oh, I’m sorry. What I meant to ask is where do your tattoos come from?”

Everyone else returned to their previous conversations, Danel paused for a moment, how by the stone was he to explain this one? A frown marring his brow he spoke the words that every duster before him had joked when asked, “The nobles make sure we casteless get tattooed so they know who we are when they see us. That way they know who to spit on, right?” Leliana’s eyes widened, he was almost certain that it was out of horror at the thought, but Danel shrugged it off, it was what you are. Chuckling he smiles in her direction, “Helps us, too. Makes it easier to figure out whose pockets are worth picking.”

“Is that why we haven’t gone back?” Leliana’s voice was soft, and Danel couldn’t help the shame that prickled into his chest at the thought, is that why he hadn’t returned to Orzammar – left his sister to whatever fate she could manage without him, without anyone to protect her.

“I… maybe.” He kicked a stone, “When I left, Duncan had told me that I would never return. I made my peace. As much of it as I could as a casteless dwarf in Dustown. Being a Grey Warden – a good Grey Warden, protecting people from the ‘spawn that threaten Orzammar regularly and I would have a chance to gain respect… Something I couldn’t have or Orzammar.”

“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” It was a genuine apology, something that Danel hadn’t come to expect from anyone, especially a surfacer – it brought a genuine smile to his lips, by the Stone, he missed having one there.

Danel chuckled, “You shouldn’t know – its-we’re,” he corrected himself with a scowl, “Orzammar’s dirty little secret. Someone does something to piss off the nobility and you’re stripped of your caste, and in the most serious of cases, are banished from Orzammar, never to return.”

“So it is a punishment?” Her brow was furrowed, it was something that he was certain was difficult for a topsider to understand.

Looking up his eyes met the brightest, gentlest blue he had ever seen since coming to the surface, “Casteless dwarves are said to be unknowledgeable by the Stone. That when we die, we are unable to return to the Stone…” A pained smile played on his lips, “A casteless dwarf bears the sins of his father on his back until the day he dies, to be spit on and used without a second thought and without rights.”

The Chantry sister blinked sadly, “It must have been a hard life.”

Danel chuckled, “No harder than yours, I’m sure.”


	8. Hunt with Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calliope and Zevran are out hunting in the woods. Antics ensue. [Zevran/Female!Mahariel]

Leaves crackled and crunched under the foot of the once Antivan Crow, making the deer scramble further into the woods and Calliope scowl, “You’re too loud, lethallin.” The Dalish elf chided her voice little more than a whisper. 

She could feel Zevran’s glare prickle on the back of her neck, “I used to be an Antivan Crow – surely I am more than capable of being stealthy enough to kill a deer.”

Another stick crunched underneath his heel, a small smile spreading across her lips, “Want to try that one again?” The blond man gave her a look, and was about to say something when the sound of leaves crackling twenty meters off. Looking up Calliope presses her hand to his chest, urging him to stop – the doe looked up and the Dalish elf pushed the Antivan into the tree – giving him a look that told him to stay put.

A devious grin spread across his lips as Calliope turned her back to the blonde assassin. Drawing her bow with her other hand, she slid out from behind the tree, eyes never wavering from the small herd of deer in front of her, as one of deer closest to their current hiding spot stopped Calliope’s entire body froze, aiming for the most prominent vital spot on the body.

Hands found her waist and Calliope gasped in surprise – fingers slipping, the arrow veers off towards a tree, scattering the deer, “Elgar'nan! How in Creators name are we supposed to find dinner when you keep doing that? You… You…” Calliope’s face was bright pink and she was shaking her bow wildly at the assassin who was trying his best not to fall into a fit of laughter from the Warden’s face.

“Me, what querida?” Striding forward as his eyes shone with amusement, Calliope’s face only became a brighter shade of red, tears of frustration in the corners of her eyes.

Blinking away the furious tears Calliope took a deep breath, “You jerk!” Her voice was an octave higher than it normally was, which only made her blush deepen, Creators, was his mission now to embarrass her to death? Because he was doing a marvelous job of it.

Zevran’s laugh boomed through the forest, “All of this work up for “You jerk!”? My dear Warden, I do believe we need to work on your insults.”

Her arms crossed her chest, obstinate and defensive, “My insults are perfectly fine.”

“If “You jerk!” is the best you can come up with…” He chuckled as her fist came in contact with his chest, hand sliding up he wrapped his own hand around her balled fist, and pulled her closer to him, free hand wrapping around her waist.

Blinking furiously Calliope looks up into golden eyes, alight with amusement and she bit the inside of her cheek and resolution filling her she took a deep breath, “Braska.”

Her voice was little more than a whisper, but she was sure the assassin heard it regardless, especially when his smile was tugged wider. “Now that, my dear Warden, was much better.”


	9. Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perun Aeducan ends up seriously injured after a battle and Morrigan enjoys beating up his already bruised ego even more.

“Healing magic doesn’t work as well on dwarves, you know.” The banished Aeducan grunted in response as the Witch of the Wilds continued tending to his wounds, “You continue running off into battle only to end up ripped apart in the same exact way every time.” Sarcasm always seemed to color her voice, whether it be when he was drinking or fighting, hell, Perun could be sleeping and the woman would have something to say about him being stupid or foolish while doing so.

The warrior chuckled watching as the woman stopped attempting to heal the gaping wound with magic, it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it looked, he blamed the adrenaline that he could still feel pounding in his temples, “It’s what berserkers do, mage.”

The woman scoffed and began sorting through her pack, for a poultice, Perun assumed, “So you throw yourself into battle to what end?”

Perun watches warily as the Witch pulls out what looks to be a sewing kit and almost runs as she dumps one of the skins of wine onto it, “It’s how I was trained,” the dwarf shrugged eyes still carefully watching the woman’s hands – ever more curious as to why by the Stone she needed it, “you get mad, you kill things – your own physical limitations aren’t recognized until after the battle.”

“Now,” threading the needle the woman brings it towards the former noble’s arm, “I’m going to stitch this up so that you don’t have to worry about dirt or one of Alistair’s dirty socks getting in it and making it fester.”

Before she could manage to pierce his skin however, Perun scrambled to his feet, eyes wide as saucers, “I don’t think so, Witch.” His voice was little more than a hiss, “I’ll take a huge gash in my arm over… that.” He roughly gestured towards the needle in the frowning woman’s hand.

“You would rather die of an infected wound than the Blight,” She shook her head, “You had the width of your bicep torn by a blade but cannot manage to sit as I put a needle to it?”

“I was fighting then!” His voice was flustered, the first time that had happened since he had arrived at Ostagar.

The Witch cackled, Perun was sure there was no other word for it, “Oh and you are what, clucking like a chicken now? ‘Tis only a little more blood and pain. Surely a warrior of your caliber could handle such things.”

Grumbling to himself Perun sits and grabs the skin of wine, “Wait until I’m good and drunk Witch, then you can do whatever you damn well please to my arm.” Pressing the skin to his lips his frown deepened, there was no way he’d let a woman make a fool of him. Not in this lifetime.


End file.
